Scars
by Awesomelock
Summary: Everyone has scars from The Fall, it's just some peoples are more physical than others, as John finds out. A three chapter two shot (don't ask). Changed the name !
1. Chapter 1

A/N- I hope this chapter isn't too dragged out… I didn't want to just rush straight into everything. Yeah. Rated T for swearing and slight blood. Just to be safe.

Chapter 1

"You should see _me _in a crown." Sherlock murmured randomly to himself for reasons John couldn't seem to fathom as Sherlock adjusted the crown he'd recently acquired to conclude a case. And a job well done too.

Though he did suppose that the crown really should have been taken down to the yard and given to someone very important and official before being driven away in its own high security blacked-out-windowed car. But that could wait until later- the kettle hadn't even boiled.

Besides, no one knew Sherlock had it. He could keep it and wear it to particularly important events. Soon people would know him for wearing a crown rather that that hateful double sided ear hat that they like to call a 'deer stalker'.

"Are you going to phone Lestrade or am I?" John asked after a while; stirring the spoon around in the cup of tea- watching in amazement as the milky water turned an orangey brown colour. It never seemed to grow boring.

"I shouldn't worry;" Sherlock replied as he collapsed back into an arm chair and stared forwards like a King or Queen. "I'm _sure _Mycroft has already _phoned _him."

"Should I be worried at the way you put empathise on the word 'phoned'?" John asked as he finally removed the tea bag from the tea- tapping it on the side in a tune that had an uncanny resemblance to 'Bad romance' before putting it in the black sack.

"You tell me." Sherlock finally replied as he placed his hands together in some sort of deep contemplation. "Though Mycroft has in fact already _phoned _Lestrade- he's here."

"Who?" John asked; he felt an unshakable sense of foreboding doom at the thought of Mycroft's umbrella.

"Lestrade."

"Oh."

Sure enough, seconds later there was a knock at the door, followed by fast but slow moving footsteps. That would be Mrs Hudson rushing to the door. The door opened and slowly the well-worn staircase was doing what it did best- creaking.

Closely followed by having an illogical ability to be read by Sherlock. For example, Sherlock can tell exactly what sort of Curry you spilt on the TV just by looking at the stair case and _reading _each step and scuff mark.

Though to be fair, he never guessed how the one that John and his ex had left there actually came to exist.

John hastily pushed the memory from his mind in case _something _happened before getting another mug out the cupboard. Lestrade would want tea- he could tell by the atmosphere.

"As much as I hate to strip you of your crown, Sherlock…" Lestrade trailed off.

"Have you got another case? No. Don't bother answering. I already know." Sherlock paused, looking up to make eye contact. Lestrade quickly broke said eye contact because eye contact with Sherlock will almost always result in heart failure.

Or sudden onset chronic solid-stone disease- in which you are unable to move any joints or muscles (though many muscles are rather pointless if your joints don't work- though not true in some cases). This if often caused because you have been turned into stone and is the result of the most severe type of eye contact.

"Yes, you do." Sherlock finished for himself, but then went on to explain. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't, besides, you could wait if all you wanted was the crown. Actually, you _would _wait. Also you have some paper in your hands and your eye brows are doing that thing."

"What thing?" Lestrade asked; the tone of his voice much higher than actually necessary. Some may call this sounding indignant.

"That thing where your eye brows, which is the short hair above your eye sockets and below your forehead and in line with the top of your nose, is pulled into both a 'V' and an upside down 'V' at the same time by the muscles in your face."

"Don't be patronising, Sherlock." John scolded Sherlock like an old lady after realising that Lestrade was too stunned to reply. He was too used to Sherlock not saying enough, but being patronising and saying too much?

That was a whole other tin of worms, or can of beans, or whatever John says.

"I'm sorry my eye brows send mixed messages." Lestrade replied, sitting down opposite Sherlock and spreading his arms like he owns the place. It didn't quite make Sherlock sick, because he was too weird to be sickened, and it didn't make John sick because he was too normal, but whenever Mrs Hudson was around…

"But your right, I do have a case for you."

"Yes, we'd already established that." Sherlock interrupted, as he grew increasingly annoyed. "Any time now."

"Triple murder, all linked, but we're not sure why, or how, or, you know."

"Yes, I'm certain I'll be able to figure out 'you know' for you." Sherlock quoted.

John handed Lestrade a cup of tea and received a small thank you- Sherlock wasn't pleased- Lestrade was making John expect a 'thank you' each time he made a cup of tea. It was cancelling out his training.

"Just opposite the last triple murder that we couldn't figure out too."

"Think they're all related?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock replied using his thinking voice, which meant he had enough time to correct 'idiots' (his words), but not enough time to answer questions.

And he knew when you were being an idiot and when you were pretending to not understand just to get information out of him, because he was lucid enough to so that as well. Because him thinking is like someone else being asleep.

"Well forensics seems to think otherwise."

"Yes, I'm sure Anderson _thinks _otherwise." John wasn't sure if he liked the way Sherlock began to put _emphasis _on certain words. Or should he say _over-_emphasis.

"Everything seems to point to it." John replied; suddenly teaming with Lestrade. Sherlock was hurt by the sudden traitorous act. Sherlock supposed this was revenge for accidently destroying most of the electrical items in the flat with a large electromagnetic pulse.

Upon him explaining what had happened to John, John replied 'You are an electromagnetic pulse.' Sherlock liked that way of describing himself.

"Except the fact that the previous killer is both too dumb to kill again, since the first time was an accident and I happen to know he won't be killing again for a while." He paused and crossed his legs one other another; reasoning that he looked decidedly posher.

"The main question is how these are linked, then." Lestrade attempted to conclude.

"It had to be someone quite clever- someone with an in depth knowledge of the murders, but not someone related to the original ones. They know that they won't get away with pinning these murders on the original killers either, because we both know what happened to them. They know that we will come to the conclusion that they have access to this information, and they want us to, so the main question is why do they want us to know that?"

It was beginning to get interesting.

Lestrade took a sip at his tea. It was far hotter than it should have been- solely down to the fact that Sherlock had 'modified the kettle- for an _experiment_.'

"So, d'you want to see the crime scene?"

"No, I want to stay here and feel that post-case rush- you know, that intense thrill at having nothing to do." Sherlock replied sarcastically as he lifted the crown off his head to inspect.

"What?" Lestrade asked. He didn't seem to understand the sarcasm- probably due to the lack of tone in Sherlock's voice during his last sentence.

He was confused. Not that he wasn't used to Sherlock invitations to crime scenes, but in the words of Donovan, 'it was too sick for Sherlock to not take' (given the state of the bodies they'd found) and that 'Sherlock would get off on it too much."

Not that the former wasn't true, or even the latter. It didn't matter anyway, because Sherlock was going to inspect anyway.

"We'll catch a taxi after we've finished this little tea party." He said; disinterestedly as he examined the crown he had placed between his fingers. It would look mighty fine with the letters 'S' and 'H' engraved into it, he felt.

* * *

John and Sherlock stood beneath an old, worn out umbrella, camouflaging in with the sky and the cat licking its paws under the bus stop a couple of metres away, on the other side of the fence and police tape. Lucky sod. Lestrade tied somewhat too hard to not smile at the sight of the two of them sharing the umbrella.

The rain was bouncing off the ground so much so that cars had to drive considerably slower on the road behind the crime scene- any evidence was probably being washed away.

There was very little there except copious amounts of dried or drying blood and the occasional suspicious looking lump of… something red and flesh like. It was forensics time to shine, though as Miss Adler had once said, DNA is only as good as the record. Or something to that extent.

"Know anything new?" Lestrade asked as he trudged over in his blue waterproof coat and ruined shoes to the crime solving duo.

"Well, I don't;" John replied- he had expected as much. There was nothing really there but mud and wet sand/dirt from the building sight. "Sherlock's probably found something."

Sherlock was busy examining a small tuft of grass that grew between two paving slabs at the edge of the fenced off section. It required such concentration that he was unable to speak to anyone.

"Yeah, I he does- I bet he also has a thing or two to say about that." Lestrade said as he subtly gestured to Donovan and Anderson who were looking at each other in a way that changed John's mental state for the worse.

"Going to Barts." Sherlock stood up and turned in a way that made his coat billow in a sinister fashion.

"Alright then." Lestrade nodded to John as he left.

"See you later." John replied before struggling to catch up with Sherlock who obviously didn't intend to catch a taxi.

* * *

They were both secretly relieved when they got in, out of the cold and attempted the smooth out their goose bumps. How could wind get under clothes so easily?

John was completely distracted by the cool temperature of his limbs that he even bother to look up, he just followed Sherlock's shoes wherever they went. And Sherlock didn't notice that anything was wrong because nothing was wrong.

It wasn't until they finally reached the morgue that John realised something felt wrong. He ran his hand over the top of his head- he realised he was aging and that his hair was on borrowed time.

But it wasn't that.

He couldn't quite put two and two together to realised that the hospital was slightly too… friendly feeling, particularly considering he was stood in a room of dead people. John had decided that when he began to feel cosy in a room of dead people he was allowed to panic.

But then again, he reasoned, it wasn't worth thinking about. Whatever happened, happened.

Sherlock pulled up an image on his phone screen, looking pleased with himself for having 3G.

His screen depicted what appeared to be a large warehouse that looked very out of place in the middle of the beautiful country side, but to give them their credit; it was painted varying shades of green so it blended in better, though this did mean it had to be constructed of large, plastic panels.

The pros and cons of the construction of the warehouse or factory of sorts weighed heavily on Johns mind for a couple of seconds before he was reminded that Sherlock probably wasn't showing him the picture so they could debate about the architecture.

John wondered if he should have questioned the picture or give up then and admit himself. The latter made sense, but he couldn't see any easily accessible doors or a welcoming and well lit reception with a waiting room branching off the morgue.

He wondered if his spooky feeling about the place would come to anything. He kept expecting someone who knew Sherlock to pop out and kill them both, but it didn't seem to be happening.

He was worried that his 'bad-feeling' was a rather anti-climactic random and accidental occurrence. Eventually John had been desensitised to the fear of imminent death via serial killer.

John had decided that the case they were on was important, because if it wasn't Sherlock probably wouldn't have gone to the crime scene considering the weather- he didn't like the rain. He reasoned that neither did cats, but John wasn't sure what this statement had meant to imply and so dropped it.

Sherlock busied himself and John came to wonder why he hadn't bothered going home.

Suddenly Sherlock began to speak. "Someone else is here, and it's not Molly."

There was suddenly a tight feeling in Johns chest and he felt much like he did when he saw the red dot reappear on his chest at the pool after Moriarty had left, followed by the words, 'Sorry boys!' It was kind of like a 'oh for god sakes' mixed with fear and worry and the urgent need to call Lestrade.

(The latter was probably less crime solving related and more to do with going to get a pint, which many people found stress relieving, (though John didn't particularly, he just wanted the social interaction. He didn't actually like too much drinking.))

John the suddenly felt the urge to speak. "What?" He choked out. Somehow he knew that this person didn't just happen to work there, he wasn't sure how, maybe it was the angry looking shadow that was approaching him from behind, maybe it was something else.

It was nice for a change; he had made some rather dramatic enemies over the years.

John supposed he owed Sherlock a big thanks for knowing that an attacker was in the room, and as Sherlock latter told him, was struggling with his marriage, and Sherlock hadn't even had to look at them to get all that. Class.

"You're a clever man." Whoever it was said, stepping forwards past John to stand closer to Sherlock. He was either very brave or very stupid. Both words mean the same thing. "Learn when to shut up."

"You're a clever man." Sherlock said, "Learn not to attack consulting detectives, it always ends badly."

"Does it?" He asked in a well-rehearsed mocking tone. If there was anything Sherlock hated more than a well-rehearsed mocking tone it was a rhetorical question, and the bloody man had combined them.

If Sherlock had to place the man on the criminal meter that described the criminal by name, he would come up as a Steve. It made little sense, and more often than not the calculations to figure out exactly where people come are quite hugely off.

"You know people want you dead." The man spoke.

"Yes, I find that is a reoccurring issue…" Silence fell upon the room and all of the occupants fought the urge to awkward turtle.

"You killed my wife."

"Yes, we're in the morgue," Sherlock sighed, "If you give me a name, I'm sure I can find her."

"You killed my wife." The man said each word punctuated by a short pause as if the message would get across slightly better, but it didn't because Sherlock was too busy thinking about how people use the spoken English language for effect. "You fucking-" Before the man finished his sentence he leaped for Sherlock, holding what appeared to be something sharp and metallic and was accelerating towards Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock almost saw the attack coming and managed to move out of the way, but not before the familiar feeling of metal in flesh sunk into his shoulder and a slight gasp exited his mouth.

He punched the man around the head, splitting his knuckles under the force, and it was all over rather quickly.

One man was lying unconscious on the floor, and the other perched against a table, clutching a hole in his flesh before putting his forgotten about phone in his pocket and explaining the photo.

"It's the location of his-" He pointed to the almost corpse like man on the floor, "-warehouse where he originally killed those three people before transporting them. There was too much blood at the crime scene- it wasn't all theirs."

John wasn't actually listening, he was already on the phone with Lestrade and Sherlock was already refusing medical treatment. They were in a bloody hospital as well.

* * *

They were allowed home not long after; on the condition they spoke to Lestrade first thing in the morning. Lestrade and Mycroft had been able to pull a few strings after all.

John's main priority was the small stab wound on Sherlock's shoulder. It wasn't particularly deep or serious but could get infected and John wanted to treat it straight away. Sherlock had refused medical treatment from anyone else- and some of the people from Scotland Yard had a good go guessing why too.

"Sherlock?" John asked as they stepped in the front door.

No reply came except from Mrs Hudson's radio informing him that he was in fact listening to BBC radio news look east.

"Sherlock?" John tried again once they'd gotten upstairs, into the privacy of their own flat- though John was very reluctant to describe it that way due to the nature of the Holmes brothers.

This time Sherlock replied with a muffled noise as he buried his eye balls into the lens of the microscope- just checking up on an experiment.

"Will you let me take a look at that _stab _wound?" John decided that he might get through to Sherlock if _he_ used emphasis as well.

"If you have to."

"Which I do." John replied, quickly grabbing his on hand and far too often used medical kit from the bathroom and going back to the kitchen where Sherlock was peering into other experiments that he'd left. "Can you take your shirt of please?"

Sherlock gave him a very odd and uncharacteristic look before it caught up on him why John was asking him to do that. He complied, probably due to the pain that was emanating through the wound.

His fingers struggled on the buttons and he turned away from John, who was preparing some sort of painful looking cleaning procedure.

After about a minute his shirt finally came off to expose him to the harsh natural light filtering through the kitchen window, the sniper across the road, and John.

* * *

A/N- Thanks for reading :D I won't ask you to review because reviews scare me... But I love them 3 I know its bad and I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, it wasn't beta-ered. (Also, I can't remember if I used any of those words like 'bloody' and 'sod' etc, but I swear I'm not using them to sound British, thats just how I speak.)

(I'm English.)

(Peace out.)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N- Sorry that last chapter was really drawn out and boring until suddenly "You killed my wife!" And then it's all over. I didn't mean to rush it like that…

* * *

Chapter 2

Sherlock shivered slightly as he caught a reaction of himself in the shiny toaster opposite him. He hadn't looked much at himself since he'd returned from after the fall, but the nicest way to describe his physical appearance at that point in time was Frankenstein's monster.

John looked at him, his mouth ever so slightly parted, his ears had dropped and his eyes were slightly too wide, most people wouldn't have noticed it because John had become rather good at hiding his reactions.

Though the gash scars on Sherlock were rather shocking.

When John didn't look away Sherlock began to feel a human feeling, something almost like embarrassment, but not quite. Silence seeped into the room like a bad smell.

"Oh, uh, yeah, right- if you could just sit down, so I can take a look at your shoulder a bit better…" John replied, trying desperately to go into what many people have taken to dubbing 'Doctor mode', but failing.

Sherlock sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked at John's medical kit. He felt it was all a bit unnecessary considering the man's blade had barely sunk a centimetre or two into his shoulder, but he'd been there before. John wasn't changing his mind.

As John examined the wound Sherlock found his thoughts began to drift ever so slightly and non-surprisingly to what John had named '_The_ Fall'. This event was separate to 'the fall' which consisted or Mrs Hudson falling off a step ladder and John and Sherlock taking her to the hospital for an X-ray.

Separate again from the time John fell down all the stairs leading up to their flat.

He remembered the different places he'd been- in particular that yellow hotel bathroom where he passed out in an empty bath tub to help prevent a bloody mess. Literally.

Or the time he had to sleep in an abandoned car park because being dead and stuck in a small country in Europe with absolutely no money wasn't as glamorous as it was made out to be.

"How did you get all these scars?"

"Lots of causes." Sherlock said as John began to wipe at the hole in his shoulder with what felt like sandpaper and a type of acid. Or alkaline. Alkaline burns are worse than acid burns.

"What about this one?" John pointed to a particularly angry looking, red, raised scar that ran over the top of his shoulder and down his chest and back.

"Either Khartoum or sometime after leaving Mecca. I can't remember." John had guessed that he got his scars during his 'time away'.

"Oh…" John replied; not wanting to say that he didn't ask where he got it, he asked how he got it. He then developed a genius solution: "How did you get it?"

"A fight of sorts." Sherlock replied as he pulled away from some sort of medieval torturing device John had poked in the wound. "I had to escape being captured somehow."

"You were captured?" There was a hint of surprise and worry in his voice but also something else.

"Lots of times, though more often than not I had actually wanted to be caught."

"Oh." John replied. He didn't enjoy talking about Sherlock's 'time away' and so decided not to continue the conversation.

After a long and antagonising silence John finally informed whoever cared to listen that they were done and that he could put his top back on, but was unable to look away from the scars. Somewhere long and stringy and others were wide and solid.

It was Sherlock's back which looked the most horrifying yet interesting, but he couldn't get a good enough look at it.

"What about your belly?" John asked suddenly before Sherlock could get his shirt on. His stomach had the weirdest looking swirly burn scars on it. Sherlock only answered once he had his top firmly back on.

"I'm not sure where it was." Sherlock had become increasingly concerned about his own memory, though it was okay because it was meant to be missing. He'd deleted it. "I had just finished there when there was an explosion. It was a warning of sorts to stay away. I woke up some hours later face down on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere."

"What happened?" John was far too interested by that point to drop it, even if it was hard to hear.

"I assumed they weren't a threat. If they didn't kill me they were too weak." He paused as he fell back and sunk into a suspiciously cushioned chair. "I walked to the nearest city or town and slept under in a hotel."

"Why didn't you take me with you?" He asked out of the blue.

"I couldn't. I couldn't take myself with me- jumping off that building was hard enough." John guessed this was as close as it got to Sherlock making a joke. "Besides, you'd have slowed me down."

John felt both outraged, hurt and put down by this comment. He had no clear idea on how to express all of this and so didn't try.

"You were dead," John spoke very clearly and punctuated each word with a pause, "And whilst I was sat in London with nothing, you were off around the world being James Bond?"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry John. I was living in luxury, having to sew my shoulder up and praying to every God from every religion that it didn't get infected, whilst you poor soul was sat here in London having lost your flat mate that you'd known for a couple of years."

"Don't make out that I had it easy."

"Don't make out that I had it easy." Sherlock then countered.

"I'm not, but you could have told me."

"Having you believe that I was dead was vital to the plan."

"That's all my life is? Part of a plan?"

"I _died_ so you could live." Sherlock spoke loudly. John decided that then wasn't the time to bring up the 'emphasis conversation' that they were going to have at some point.

"And that makes everything okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied as he picked up his violin. And in most situations, he would have been right.

Nothing more was said. John decided that he really needed to go for a drink with Lestrade and any other friends he may have had.

* * *

John came rolling in at around 2am. He only felt slightly light headed and off, but he supposed that was because he hadn't had much to drink.

He laid his coat across that Sherlock shaped pillow on the sofa and went to the toilet to brush his teeth. Whatever mindless cleaning activity that he felt the need to engage in he could procrastinate until the morning.

It wasn't like Sherlock would mind much when the dishwasher was unloaded. Obviously not since it was an activity that Sherlock had never participated in. Ever.

He flicked the lights on. Both he and the Sherlock shaped pillow groaned ever so slightly.

After quickly taking his watch, phone and wallet out of his coat pocket he began to waddle towards the sofa- but decided that the arm chair was closer and so slumped back into that instead.

He sat there for what felt like seconds before the world around him began to grow dark and his thoughts were few and far between and about nothing in particular. The most memorable thought though, was about how there was that faint sound of breathing that wasn't his own, but he dismissed this as trivia.

"No!" Came a very loud, very slurred voice followed by harsh breathing. Both confusion and panic settled on the room and the thought 'how did I get here and why am I standing up?' weighed heavily on Johns conscious mind, closely followed by 'Who's screaming?' and 'why?'

As his eyes began to adjust to suddenly being ripped open like that he slowly began to piece together what had happened.

The Sherlock shaped pillow was in fact, Sherlock. And the exclamation of the word 'no' was Sherlock in distress.

John made a grab for his gun, only to find that it wasn't next to him because he wasn't in his own room with his bedside table, and with that idea out of his mind he was hit with the sudden realisation that he didn't need a gun.

This was because Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, once dead, ex-addict, super genius, annoying prat- was having a nightmare.

John froze from his previously over-animated frantic position of waving his arms around and looking confused. He'd had his own nightmares, yes, but he had absolutely no idea what to do if Sherlock had one.

He hoped Sherlock didn't have nightmares because he'd stashed all his memories in his mind palace and didn't want to be disturbed by his subconscious whilst he was 'recharging'. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

John decided to switch to automatic- reasoning with himself that it was 'easier to drive'. But Sherlock didn't like metaphors, let alone extended metaphors, so he vowed never to repeat that thought to a living soul.

"Sherlock?" John did realise that saying Sherlock's name repeatedly would sound stupid, and exclaiming it would be even worse, so he went with asking it like a question: Sherlock? Sherlock?

Sherlock was lying on the sofa in a twisted mess of limbs and crumpled clothes. He was sweating too.

"Sherlock?" John knew he should probably have woken Sherlock up since he was going to wake up on his own, why wait for his dream to reach that really bad bit at the end? "Sherlock- wake up." He managed to keep the panic out of his voice to the most part.

Sherlock appeared to stir- his eyes had opened though they hadn't fully focused on anything.

"John?" He asked, though this was probably not because he knew John was there but because John happened to be dying in his dream.

"Sherlock." John replied. He hoped no one had counted the number of times he'd repeated the 'dead but alive' man's name.

He hadn't realised how close he'd gotten to the other man until the still unconscious man began to push him away. "No." Sherlock murmured under his breath. John tried to stand his ground because of his manly pride.

He began to shake Sherlock and poke him in a desperate attempt to make him up.

Before he realised it, and when he did realise it, he realised it with shock, a fist had appeared to have flown into his face. He fell backwards in complete surprise before a wave of pain hit one side of his face.

Some sort of fury dam had broken inside of him until he remembered that Sherlock was asleep and having a nightmare- then it turned mostly to pity.

But being the man he was he scrambled back to his feet and jumped onto the flailing man and went straight to plan B.

A harsh slapping noise emanated through the room- followed by a long period of silence.

Sherlock sat up and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing. He had either fallen into infinity on the sofa, or it was dark and the curtains were pulled.

His heart was pounding and each breath felt like he'd just been strangled. A greasy film of sweat at formed on his face and he wiped it away with his sleeve, successfully hiding all evidence that he'd ever been crying.

But he remembered his dream well and the tears didn't stop.

The next thing he became aware of was the pain on his cheek and the presence of another person, but that was only because he had buried his face into that persons shoulder and had his arms wrapped around them.

He noticed how his arms were shaking and how his limbs felt weak, but he still couldn't shake the images that had been burnt into his mind forever.

"John?" He asked after a while. John replied with an acknowledging grunt.

After a short while John asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes."

No one said anything.

"Go on." John prompted.

"Okay." Sherlock replied.

Still, no one said anything.

Neither man felt that this particular conversation was their forte, and so John offered to make tea, to which Sherlock replied with a yes.

The lights burst on to reveal the entire room- proving that Sherlock hadn't dropped into infinity.

The tea was ready all too soon for Sherlock's likings.

John sat down opposite him, which was both relieving and disappointing for Sherlock.

Sherlock was not pleased.

"What happened once I was gone?" Sherlock asked. He already knew the answer, but he preferred that John was talking and not him.

"Not much." John lied, his memories focussing on Sherlock's funeral, attacking Mycroft, (and to Johns surprise, he wasn't taken away by men in suits and 'disposed of' like he'd always expected, Mycroft just sat there looking guilty.) The painful phone calls to people- Harry, Lestrade, who made the phone call harder than it should have been on John, and Molly, who seemed to accept it all too well.

Though John had suffered his own fair share from the fall, just as much as Sherlock had. His limp had come back, and he found that the adrenaline that he got from leaning backwards on the stairs wasn't quite the same as chasing a criminal around London.

John also found that he found it much, much harder to get closer to people and fell into a bubble of paranoia that pushed people away. He couldn't help but worry people didn't want to get close to him due to reduced personal hygiene standards as the result of some sort of self-pity.

"You're lying." Sherlock replied. John knew he would see right through it, but it was worth a try.

"Yeah," John laughed morbidly, "Like you've never lied."

Both John and Sherlock choked when those words left his mouth. There was an instant feeling of regret from both parties. Sherlock's blank mask spread its self across his face. Silence echoed in the room for 2 minutes and 14 seconds before John spoke.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry- I didn't me-"

"No John, I don't suppose you did mean it like that." Sherlock replied as he pressed his flat hands together. Everyone had always wondered why exactly he did that when he was thinking. "I don't think that dying for your sake really excuses lying either."

"Please- I-" Sherlock cut him off again.

"No. Every inch of my body is covered in scars- I was dead for three years and I lost you nearly as much as you lost me- I travelled around the world killing people; I became someone I've always fought against- a serial killer." Sherlock paused- admiring his handy work at how his words were affecting John before going on to continue:

"I lived in bushes and ditches and alley ways, under buildings- at one particular point I found that half a building was resting on top of me. Yes, John, whilst you were stood at my grave mourning the perils of your loss, I was laughing." He looked at John who appeared to be almost in tears and decided to finish it off. "I had an easy time."

Sherlock spoke the last sentence very slowly and clearly, either because he wanted to rub it in or because his jaw had locked up.

"I'm sorry." John replied. That was all he could say. It was like he'd just been slapped in the face. He should have seen it coming- after all, he'd slapped Sherlock in the face. There seemed to be an unbreakable cycle.

"42." Sherlock said after a while.

"Pardon?" John asked. He was beginning to regret giving Sherlock _his Hitchhikers guide to the_ _galaxy_ book until Sherlock continued.

"42 people are still alive that I should have killed."

"_Should_ have killed?"

"I should have killed them, and I could have killed them, but I didn't."

"Oh." John replied; his knowledge of the English language having once again failed him. What do you say to that? What could you say to anything that Sherlock had told him? "I'm sorry."

"No you're not; you're wondering what to say. You're also wondering exactly what that brown thing is in your coffee. The dishwasher is broken." John wasn't sure if he was more hurt by the fact that Sherlock didn't accept his comforting words or the fact that the dishwasher was broken.

"I forgive you for dying." John replied- hoping that Sherlock would draw more comfort from those words instead.

"I either had to jump or my 'friends would die.' To quote Moriarty, 'all of them,' I was slightly insulted when he only listed three people."

"I wonder why he was short on people to kill?"

"It nagged at me every night."

"I'm sure it did."

"I'm surprised no one figured it out." Sherlock replied as he sipped at his cup of tea, he was more awake then he had been before. More on guard- he was embarrassed at the emotions and other sentimental stuff he'd let slip.

He'd have to place guards at his mind palace doors, and dig out a moat with leeches and crocodiles and have a strip of red ants just to stop people breaking in. That was something John seemed to have acquired skill in after Sherlock's 'time away'.

"Particularly Mycroft. He was always very good at figuring out puzzles." Sherlock paused, "And I thought Lestrade would have known better."

"He had his suspicions." John paused and looked at Sherlock; wondering if he should elaborate. "Mycroft took it very hard until we found some suspicious activity in small countries across Europe- he even sent people over there to find whoever it was."

"If he thought it was me he would have surely known that I was in temporary hiding, and if it wasn't me he was wasting his time."

"I think he was a little bit desperate." John looked slightly nervous. The thought of ice man having emotions seemed to make him feel uncomfortable. "We all were. No one wanted to accept it."

"I see."

"Anyway, it seemed that whoever it was got captured and killed. We thought then whatever had happened you were dead- for certain."

"They weren't killed." Sherlock replied.

The room went silent as things began to click in Johns head- but he couldn't quite reach a conclusion.

Sherlock turned in his seat and lifted his shirt up to reveal his back.

"It appeared our old friend Jim had set some traps up- one of them being a nice 'private prison'. One that supported the use of 'punishment'."

His back was a mess of mangled flesh and varying shades of scar. John looked both horrified and slightly angry.

"It was terribly dull."

John didn't dare mention exactly how dull he found the three years without Sherlock. But then there were a lot of things he wasn't mentioning-like exactly where that supply of drugs that Sherlock had kept in the ceiling had gone. That was a very dark week.

"I even made a friend." Sherlock replied at first John felt an uncontrollable pang of jealousy, but then John wondered if this 'friend' had been a romantic sort of friend. "I killed him."

"What?" John choked.

"I didn't realise at first, I had been rather stupid and ordinary," He paused, "He on the list. He had just wanted to kill me."

They both secretly hoped that it wasn't just the stress causing Sherlock to become paranoid.

"I'm, you know," Sherlock started, "Sorry." That word felt weird to say.

John looked at him before looking down then back up. Had he really just said that?

"Don't be." John replied; having finally forgiven him. "But… Yes, I'm sorry too."

Both and John and Sherlock realised that there was something John wasn't saying.

* * *

A/N- SORRY IF SHERLOCKS OOC! I'M NOT GOOD WITH ALL EMOTIONAL SHERLOCK ETC. I just hope this all makes sense?

I know I said this would be a two shot, but I kind of dragged this out too much and now it's a three shot. I might edit it later to make it a two shot.

So I've brought this aloe vera drink, and I'm carrying it around with me telling myself I _will _drink it! And anyway, that's mostly what inspired this chapter. I'll leave the details to your imagination… *creeps towards the exit*


	3. Chapter 3

A/N- I made the mistake of putting on a new perfume. My nose won't get used to the smell for some reason. It's awful (well, it smelt nice at first.) That's the reason for very slight perfume bashing in this chapter. (It won't even wash off with boiling water. I mean, come on.) Just a fun fact ^^ (if you can call it 'fun'.)

* * *

Chapter 3

Sherlock decided not to bring up the fact that John was blatantly not telling him something. He knew after his time away, not to harass people into saying things, and not to try and figure out exactly what they weren't saying. Most of the time he probably didn't want to know anyway.

Not that he didn't usually try to get information out of people if they were hiding something; he was still that annoying prick that he'd always been. Just a changed annoying prick.

Anyway, he was too busy trying to change the weather with pure will power.

The pathetic fallacy was ironic. How could weather even be ironic? It wasn't fair. Though Sherlock refused to tell anyone why he thought it was ironic that it was stormy outside, he had decided that the weather didn't deserve to be graced by being explained. Just that everyone should know that the story weather reflected the atmosphere.

"Anything?" Sherlock asked as John checked the site.

He already knew the answer. He also knew that John had gotten drunk the previous night; he could tell because John did a very long, watery piss- which happens to be the effect of alcohol on urine.

John also didn't want to turn the lights on and complained at Sherlock to turn of the rather loud 'improved' dishwasher. But the most obvious give away was the fact that John had seemingly taken a liking to rubbing beer in his hair.

"No…" John replied in his concentrating voice. Just as Sherlock had thought. A smug look plastered his face but he quickly hid this face before anyone saw it.

No one said anything as Sherlock lay on the sofa in his dressing gown hoping his brain didn't consume its self before he got a new case. What a dull way to die.

Neither said anything to each other.

But then again, neither said anything at the way Mrs Hudson had been avoiding Sherlock. Who could blame her?

And Lestrade had barely contacted Sherlock, and neither had Mycroft. Molly had barely seen either of them as well.

But instead of bringing anything like that up Sherlock decided to pop the blister on the back of his foot- it seemed his shoes no longer fitted after all that time away. The watery contents of the blister ran all over his hand.

He was about to rub it on his sleeve but a thought entered his mind that he decided would be best to find out himself. It could always come in useful.

He licked his fingers only to find that they tasted suspiciously like tears.

This was vaguely interesting, but expected.

Then the thought of how disgusting that was entered his mind, but he brushed this away as a common person thought. It was in fact very clean. Besides, it was important information.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked when he caught sight of Sherlock licking his fingers with his foot right in front of his face. Sherlock knew that it would be hard to explain and so said nothing.

"People have been avoiding us." John decided that if Sherlock didn't bring it up no one would.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "People generally do tend to avoid the living deceased."

"Stop describing yourself like you're a zombie."

"That's exactly how you described me when we finished that case the other night."

"That was different." John replied.

"In what way?" Sherlock asked as he picked up a newspaper with the headline about the dead detective being very much alive and fraudulent as ever. Even in death the rumour went on. It really slowed down business.

"It just was." John said as he shut his laptop lid. "Lunch?"

"It's not yet 10 o'clock."

"Brunch?"

"I'm not hungry."

"No, of course you're not."

"What's that meant to imply?" Sherlock asked with a sudden yet vague interest in the conversation.

"Nothing." Silence fell upon the room once more as John busied himself in the kitchen. He wasn't used to all the science equipment lying around in the kitchen again- Mrs Hudson had cleared it to help them 'move on' from Sherlock.

That the nicest word for 'forget'.

"How did you lose your job?" Sherlock asked.

"How do you know I lost it?"

"You never go."

"There's your answer to both your questions." John replied.

"But there's something else."

"Yes." John decided though, that he'd leave it at that.

"What aren't you saying?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't want to discuss my job."

"Yes, I know you lost your job because of something to do with Sarah, but you're not saying something else, about when I was gone."

"Mycroft won't tell you." John replied.

"But you will."

"Yes. Mycroft asked that I told you." John paused and wondered back to his previous position of sitting back in the chair, having forgotten about making lunch. "I was wondering when he was going to tell you, but he contacted me and-"

"In your own time."

"Yes, sorry, I'm really sorry, but, well, you're aware that your mother was on anti-depressants?"

"Painfully."

"Well, she decided-"

"I'll spare you the pain and tell you that I see where you're heading." Sherlock replied. "Was it me or was it just, you know?" Silence fell on the room. Both of their faces had gone dangerously blank in calm acceptance.

"I'm sorry." John replied. That told Sherlock all he needed to know. It was his fault.

He was glad, in a way, that John hadn't attempted to lie to him.

* * *

Mycroft phoned a couple of hours later, but no one answered. They decided that the longer they could put off talking with Mycroft, the better.

"It'll be Christmas soon." John stated randomly.

"It's November." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Meaning that it's _November _too early to start Christmas shopping!"

"That made no sense." Sherlock pointed out.

"I've been very lonely." John counter-pointed.

"You're beginning to sound a lot like Molly."

The mention of her name caused the room to slow down, if such a thing was possible.

"Have you seen Molly yet?"

"Just once. In court."

"That must have been a nice place to meet."

"She was more observant then I remembered her." Sherlock thought back to her words when he saw her. She said that he was as sad looking as he was before he died.

"I barely saw her after you kicked the bucket."

"I didn't actually 'kick the bucket'." Sherlock replied to make sure they both avoided confusion.

"Popped your clogs."

"I went to Holland."

"Yeah?"

"Smoked."

"Oh." Their monosyllabic conversation had taken a turn for the worse and so John decided to intervene with a fully formed sentence. "Anderson still hates his job, if that's anything to be pleased about."

"I'm glad to hear it." They both laughed as much as possible under the circumstances, even Sherlock's usual morbid self had become slightly more twisted when having received information that he'd caused his mother's death. Mummy.

"Things will be back to normal soon." John said but was then cut off by the beeping of Sherlock's phone.

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Would you like surgery? MH_

Sherlock looked at his phone for a second before writing a reply.

_To: Mycroft_

_Message: Is that a threat? I've got more contacts then you now. SH_

Sherlock was satisfied with his subtle threat and sent it.

"Who was that?"

"Mycroft. Offering surgery."

"What for?" John looked very worried.

"Probably plastic surgery for my scars. They don't look that bad." But then Sherlock thought about the smiley face engraved in the back of his leg. He only briefly reconsidered before reaching the same conclusion.

"Why do you need-" John cut himself off. He knew he didn't know everything about the extent of Sherlock scarring. He didn't want to offend the genius who was sitting on the sofa opposite him.

"I don't."

There was another beeping noise.

_To: Sherlock_

_Message: Scars are a weakness. Every time you see yourself you'll be reminded. MH_

Sherlock began to type angrily into his phone:

_To: Mycroft_

_Message: Are you reminded of your failed diet each time you see your surgery scar? SH_

Another subtlety point to Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the blue scarf!

No reply came.

"Don't say anything hurtful." John reminded him all too late. "He's had a hard time."

Sherlock reminded himself that plastic surgery was only so good anyway.

"Yes, I'm sure he has."

* * *

Sherlock smelt the sour perfume on an unwashed pillow cover under the counter. It had obviously been there many months.

It smelt disgusting. Particularly the perfume.

"Whoever you slept with when you used this pillow case is not welcome back." Sherlock announced as John rounded the corner for his night time cup of tea. It had been a long day.

John suddenly looked very surprised and then slightly horrified.

"Of course." John replied.

"It wasn't a lady, was it?"

"It was."

"It wasn't a lady _friend._"

"No."

"Interesting." Sherlock paused and took in John's reaction. "I didn't think you were the type."

"It wasn't like _that_!"

"No?" John didn't actually reply to that until Sherlock smiled.

"We were all very stressed out."

"I'm sure."

"And I'd had a lot to drink." John began to defend himself a bit better. "And I was pressured into it from some old friends of mine."

"I understand." Sherlock smiled as his friend became increasingly distressed.

"Sorry."

"You've got to stop saying sorry."

"I know."

"Swear to me that you and I will stop saying sorry about things we did whilst I was dead."

"I swear."

"Now let's contact Mycroft before he reaches for the last packet of biscuits."

John smiled. Even during his most thoughtful, meaningful moments Sherlock would stop to take a jab at Mycroft. Things were returning to normal.

Not that things would ever be quite the same again- particularly during those dark moments when Sherlock would move towards the edge of a building.

* * *

A/N- Finished! I'm sorry I had them argue all the time; arguments just seem to creep into everything I write. Is this some sort of meaningful subconscious message?

Should I do a one chapter epilogue thing where John and Sherlock get into a relationship etc.? Or do people not want that? Or is this too drawn out already? I'll do whatever.

Thanks for favouriting/ alerting/ reading/ reviewing/ existing! You're all so cool :D


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